Lockdown

It was no ordinary dream. They didn't just touch, make contact. They lived, spoke, slept, woke, walked together through the world, each day as clear and separate as blinking buttons on a keypad. It wasn't just all that he wanted. It was all that he had it in him to become.
 
"Jase?" A voice from outside cut in. "Jase, wake up." Dixon rolled over on his bunk and rested on his elbow, snarling.
 
"Hey, Jase, I'm sorry to wake you," said Mistral worriedly, stepping back. "It's just that I've been picking up some funny communications over the station's Net. Something's up. I'm going to head up into the station, see what I can find out. Just thought I'd let you know."
 
"Yeah, thanks," Dixon mumbled, still not fully awake. "Maybe see if you can get those refrigeration units we need, too."
 
Mistral replied with a mock salute. "Whatever you say, Boss." He turned on his heel and left the dormitory, his measured steps receding through the ship's corridors.
 
Groaning, Dixon rolled over onto his side and buried his face in the pillow, blotting out the light. But as soon as he did so, she reappeared, her face, her form, her soul unfolding before him. It took him moments to realise that he couldn't take it any more. With a final snarl of exasperation he flung the duvet off the bunk and sat up, swivelling his legs around so that they dangled off the edge. This was ridiculous. He, a grown man, thinking, obsessing this way about a woman he'd met for a maximum of minutes. He realised with a shock that he'd actually been considering accepting the Saturn Association's offer, just to see her again, spend more time with her. What had got into him? Too much time cooped up aboard this damn ship, he decided. I've been repressing, is all. Hell, it's a long time since I've been planetside. Exhaling slowly, he stood, glancing in the mirror. And I'm a mess. A shower was what was needed - a cold shower - and then a trip up to the entertainment levels wouldn't do him any harm.

---

Much to his annoyance, the bar he'd chosen was relatively empty. It was in a traditional, vaguely Irish style, with a real human bartender also in the traditional mould: grizzled, stocky and smiley. He ordered a pint of Guinness and looked around. The only other occupants were a couple of off-duty hardliners sipping their own foul brew in a corner and a tall young man at the pool table, with none of the young, loose females he'd been hoping for. Mulling over his options for conversation, Dixon decided to approach the young man; hardliners rarely had anything interesting to say, even when they were inclined to speak at all.
 
He stepped up to the raised area where the pool table stood, clearing his throat. "Pool's more fun when you're actually playing against someone, you know." The dark-haired young man, who had been leaning over the table to line up a shot, straightened up and turned to face him.
 
He was young enough to have been Dixon's son: the trader judged that he could have been no older than nineteen. Several inches taller than Dixon, he was lanky but well-muscled. When he spoke, his voice was smooth and measured. "Of course," he said, smiling wryly. "Care for a game?"
 
"Sure," said Dixon, gathering the balls together in the triangle. "But I'm not betting anything. I haven't played for a year or two, and I'm fairly skint."
 
"That's fine by me." The man handed Dixon a cue. "You can break."
 
As they played, it became increasingly clear that the trader was horribly outmatched. Dixon conceded as much with a grin. "Damnit, you're good at this," he said, chuckling. "Don't you have anything better to do than hang about at pool tables?"
 
The young man considered this. "At the moment?" he replied. "Not really, no."
 
The lights were suddenly extinguished, plunging the room briefly into darkness before the emergency lighting kicked in. Dixon looked around, alarmed.
 
"It's a station-wide lockdown," explained the young man in the same calm voice. "RaceCORP's heard about your offer from the Saturn Association, Dr. Dixon. Their plan is to get to you before you have the chance to accept, and then eliminate you."
 
Dixon whirled round to face him. "You... what?" he spluttered. "How do you...?"
 
"You learn a lot from hanging about at pool tables," the young man answered with a smile. "But now to business. You must get to your ship and escape this place."
 
A voice crackled across the station's PA system. "Ladies and gentlemen, the station's systems are currently undergoing routine maintenance. All unnecessary subsystems have been temporarily disabled, and travel between levels will not be possible for the duration of the work. We apologise for the inconvenience and will endeavour to minimise the disruption by completing the work as quickly as possible. Thank you for your understanding." During the speech, the young man had closed his eyes.
 
"And how, exactly, do you propose I do that?" Dixon asked, still hardly believing this strange youth. "You heard the message. I can't get down to the docking level, and even if I could there'll be a block on ships entering or leaving the station. If they really are coming for me, there's nothing I can do about it."
 
The young man's eyes opened. "I may be able to help you there," he said quietly. "Trust me." He began to stride towards the exit to the bar. Dixon followed, after checking that the bar's other occupants had heard nothing; the bartender was busy cleaning glasses, and the two hardliners were still slumped over their table in the far corner.
 
"Why do you want to help me?" Dixon asked, puzzled.
 
The youth turned amused eyes on him. "Does it matter?" Dixon shrugged, conceding that it didn't.
 
Finally they stopped in front of the turbolifts. One was stationed on their level. The young man stepped inside, beckoning for Dixon to follow, and pressed the button for the level where Dixon's ship was moored. The doors slid closed and the lift began to accelerate downwards.
 
"I don't suppose there's any point in me asking how you did that," Dixon stated dryly. "How you overrode the station's highest functions..." The youth shook his head.
 
When they arrived, Mistral was waiting at the door, eyes wide. "Are you crazy?" he hissed at Dixon. "Moving about during the lockdown... you've just broken just about every law this place has, and we won't be able to get out of here, in any case." He frowned. "Even if they don't come for us during the lockdown, I'm willing to bet there's an order holding us in place -"
 
"Two, actually," interrupted the soft-spoken young man. "One originating from the Saturn Association, and one from RaceCORP."
 
Mistral turned to the newcomer. "And who the hell are you?"
 
The young man smiled condescendingly. "My name is Alex, and you won't be able to get out of here without my help."
 
"Fine," Mistral growled, rapidly pulling a long-barreled handgun from a jacket pocket and pointing it at the boy's chest. "Then get inside the ship." Alex's smile widened.
 
Events were moving too fast for Dixon, and he didn't like it. All he could do was follow the two as his partner escorted the mysterious young man into their ship.
 
When they arrived at the bridge, Mistral lowered the gun for the first time. "Right," he said between gritted teeth. "You know how to get us out of here, then do it. But you're coming with us. And don't try anything funny."
 
Alex merely nodded. "May I sit down?" he asked, seating himself in one of the bridge's chairs. When no response was forthcoming, he closed his eyes and was still.
 
"What's he playing at?" Mistral snapped at Dixon, who shrugged, turning away - in time to catch what was happening on the screens showing the ship's exterior. Wordlessly he grabbed his partner and wheeled him to face the panel of screens. "Oh, shit," Mistral mouthed.
 
The massive docking arms holding the ship in place were simply disintegrating, rapidly collapsing into showers of grey dust. The same was happening to the arcs of tractor field generators mounted on the side of the station; sparking, they crumbled, and the fields flickered out of existence. Cursing, Dixon harnessed himself rapidly into the pilot's seat as the ship began to drift free. Its engines engaged, Cathedral sped away from the ungainly orbital as insistently blinking red warning lights began to come to life all over the station's surface.
 
Perhaps realising the futility of it, Mistral now put away his gun. Alex's eyes opened, and he smiled weakly. The boy looked drained.
 
"What in blazes did you do there?" the marketeer demanded. Alex opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off by Dixon from the pilot's seat.
 
"It wasn't me they were looking for, was it?" he asked, but he already knew the answer. "It was you. You're one of them."

Jovian Orbital, Executive Levels

Marmeduke stepped out of the lift pod, narrowing her eyes against the blizzard of imagery that greeted her. The corridors on the higher levels of the orbital were panelled with small screens advertising a million different products. The manufacturers certainly knew who to target: the executives who frequented these levels certainly did not lack money, and most could afford anything that tickled their fancy. On the other hand, it did not take long for most executives to become inured against the constant bombardment; either that or they were driven insane.

Their first meeting had gone surprisingly well. Dixon had put up little resistance. His curiosity had got the better of him, as Tuomas had told her it would. Her superior would also be pleased to know that she’d managed to speak to him on his own, without the presence of Mistral, another suggestion of his.

Her instructions had been clear: bring Dixon into the fold, using any and all methods at her disposal. Barbara was no fool: she knew exactly what that meant. However, the way their first meeting had gone it didn’t look like anything of the sort would be necessary, which was convenient as she wasn’t sure it would work: the relationship between Dixon and Mistral was far from clear, and even Tuomas had been unable to shed light on the situation. Besides, she had no desire to seduce him. She was an executive, not an escort, and not pretty by any standard she knew; if she couldn’t win him over with reason, then her looks were hardly going to decide the matter. She wondered briefly why Tuomas had been so adamant about it. A masculine failing, she decided, this overestimation of her charms. They’d never met face-to-face. All the same, she was surprised that her usually cogent, coldly reasoning superior would rely on something so subjective and unquantifiable. Reaching the room assigned to her use, she drew a card from her wallet and ran it through the scanner unit, then waited as the retinal scanner identified her and the entry light flashed green.

The man sitting motionless against one wall looked up at her as she entered, then glanced away, getting to his feet in one smooth motion and slipping past her out of the door. The Saturn Association still preferred to rely on the human above all else for security purposes: the room had little protection aside from the man with the massive rifle. Marmeduke didn’t know his name and was sure he didn’t know hers, but knew that he was one of the best in his business and could be trusted absolutely. All the same, she avoided looking into his eyes. Only there could the effects of the drugs he took be seen, a vicious cocktail that enabled him to live without sleep and remain immobile for hours with all faculties on full alert. He would die before he was thirty, but by that time he would be no more use as a hardliner in any case. She touched a button, and the door slid shut. As it closed she caught a glimpse of the security man standing stock still in the corridor, rifle raised and ready.

The room was now empty apart from a large attaché case, which Marmeduke unlocked. Inside was a small, square white box, completely featureless, and a jar of tablets. As instructed, she unscrewed the lid of the jar and placed one of the tablets on her tongue while clasping the box firmly in one hand. Closing her mouth, she rested the tablet on her tongue, brushing it lightly against the roof of her mouth. The tablet’s sterile, metallic taste disgusted her. She didn’t understand the technology, nor why they couldn’t use an ordinary communication line – for an organisation such as the Saturn Association, privacy was easily bought – but she’d obey her superior without fail until the day he made the wrong decision and their roles were reversed or worse.

As usual, a cold, tingling numbness spread upwards into her skull. She waited until it reached her eyes before speaking.

“This is Barbara Marmeduke. I would like to speak to Tuomas Wheelwright,” she said slowly and clearly.

“And you will speak to no one else,” returned her superior’s laconic voice immediately, seeming to originate in her own ears. “For no one else in this galaxy can intercept this link, as you well know.”

The man irritated her, Marmeduke had to admit to herself. “If someone else had a tablet...?” she ventured.

Tuomas laughed lightly. “Those tablets are made for you. The effect they have upon you cannot be reproduced in anyone else.”

She should have known. “I have spoken to Dixon. Although it may take some time, it should not prove too difficult to win him over. As you suspected, his main concern was for his own safety should he return to the races.”

“A non-issue,” Tuomas replied calmly. “He does not know it, but our overture to him has already put him in considerable danger. We will of course watch over him, but it is best that he remain unaware of this. Although we know the choice he will make,” he paused uncharacteristically, “I would prefer him to believe that he made it of his own accord.”

Her superior’s lucid reason at once impressed and disgusted Marmeduke. “Of course,” she replied deferentially. “When should I make my next approach?”

“When he comes looking for you,” Tuomas answered. “My time is short. Have you any other questions?”

“No, sir,” she heard herself saying meekly.

“Good,” said Tuomas crisply. “Link terminated.” Silence suddenly reigned in her head.

Marmeduke slumped onto the floor of the small cell, irked and drained. Using the white box always exhausted her, and she knew she would sleep for hours while her hardliner watched over the room’s door like a benevolent gargoyle. Tuomas infuriated her, and the demands he made upon her were more than any normal executive of her rank would tolerate, but he had a hold over her that no one else could begin to imagine.

If she performed well in this task, he had told her, he would give her back her past.